Veil of Lies

“Now Michael,” said Crispin. He and the other two leaned toward the candle, a coven of faces in flickering gold light. “You say you and your master come often to London?”

“Oh aye. Every two or three months it seems.”

“Were you here when the man known as Nicholas Walcote was killed?”

“No, sir. We did not yet come.”

“Was your master here before you?”

Michael’s face elongated. “Well now! How did you know that, sir?”

Crispin’s grin gleamed in the candlelight. “A good guess.” He turned to Harry, whose features were all angles and planes in the small light. “Was your master at home?”

“Aye, sir. I remember when the messenger came from London to tell us.”

“A messenger from London?” Crispin rubbed his jaw and realized he hadn’t shaved. He turned to the other. “Michael, when you valeted for your master after the death of Nicholas Walcote, was there a stain on one of his leggings?”

“Aye, sir. On his knee. It took a devil of a time to clean it proper. That were a stubborn stain.”

“I will wager, Michael, that your master is Lionel Walcote.”

“Right, sir. How did you know?”

He smiled but did not answer. “How long was he in London?”

“He left ’bout a sennight ago.”

“When he came to London, did he ever visit his brother?”

“Oh no, sir. He and Master Nicholas never did get on well.”

“He never visited his brother?”

Michael nodded. “Master Nicholas always refused to admit him. It’s a sad thing when grown men cannot put their past hates aside.”

“Did he hate Master Nicholas?”

Michael glanced at Harry. “Well now, hate is a strong word. I don’t know if I meant that—”

“Never mind,” said Crispin. “How is Master Lionel’s business? Is that why he came often to London?”

“Funny you should say. I probably shouldn’t speak of it,” said Michael, looking behind him, “but it is rumored that he is all but ruined. And it must be so, for there have been no feasts in the household for nigh on two years now. And he sold off much of the household goods.”

“Indeed. And how fares Master Clarence?”

“Well and good, sir, as far as I can tell,” said Harry.

“Did he know of Master Lionel’s plight?”

Harry looked at Michael and chuckled. “I doubt it. They never have nought to do with one another.”

“Then how do you know each other?”

The two men exchanged glances and smiled. “We’re brothers,” said Harry. “We don’t carry on like them Walcotes, though we was raised in the Walcote household. We’ve seen much, I dare say.”

Crispin nodded. “I dare say you have.” He felt at his purse for the customary gratuity, but realized he had nothing to give. He cleared his throat and reddened while he bowed instead. “I thank you both.”

They returned to the kitchen where the men immersed again with their brethren. Crispin scanned the crowd, missing what he was looking for, and climbed the stairs, ducking the low beam. With money scarce, Lionel no doubt thought it was time to get rid of the rich brother. Even though he would share the inheritance with Clarence, it was bound to be an enormous sum. Crispin’s steps slowed as he considered. Perhaps Lionel stalked him for some time, but since Nicholas never left the house, Lionel would never know it wasn’t Nicholas. Lionel knew about the passage, though, and could make his way to the solar without detection. A perfect murder. Even with a wife, there was bound to be something in the will for the brothers, or they could contest the will and seize all from the wife.

Crispin reached the bottom of the stairs of the main house. He looked up the staircase and still heard Wynchecombe bellowing.

But discovering that Nicholas was an imposter was even better. There would be no difficulty at all now in inheriting his estates. Philippa would have no claim.

Crispin slowly climbed the stairs. Lionel imagined himself free and clear. So why kill Adam Becton? It made no sense, especially as the Mandyllon apparently played no role in the imposter Nicholas Walcote’s death. But it might have played a role in Adam’s murder, else why was the box strewn on the floor?

He waited for the answer to click in his head. Still a missing piece. He was close, though. As soon as he found that piece, he knew all would make sense.

Crispin peered into the solar. Adam’s body was removed and the sheriff was bearing down on a servant with all the malice in his being—until he glanced up and saw Crispin. As if tossing aside a well-gnawed bone, Wynchecombe abandoned the servant and made for Crispin.

“You!” The sheriff pointed a gloved finger at him.

Crispin steeled himself.

“I want to talk to you.”

“I am at your serv—” But Wynchecombe grabbed Crispin’s arm and yanked him along down the stairs before Crispin could fully reply.

Still clutching Crispin’s arm, the sheriff rumbled across the courtyard to several horses held by a page. William, the sheriff’s man, held his own tether loosely and grinned when he beheld Crispin being dragged across the gravel.

“We will talk on the way to Newgate,” said Wynchecombe. He jabbed his boot into the stirrup and hoisted himself up.

Crispin frowned. “Must I trot alongside you like a dog?”

The sheriff’s scowl drooped his beard and mustache. “William. Give him your horse.”

William’s grin fell away. “My horse? Lord Sheriff—”

“Give it to him!”

William glared daggers before he threw the tether at Crispin.

Crispin’s amusement was overshadowed by the sheriff’s severe expression, and he mounted silently.

It was good to feel a horse under him again. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been in a saddle. The feel of the reins in his hand, the saddle beneath him. Wasn’t this where he belonged? Looking down upon the populace from a high seat?

He barely listened to the sheriff, and pulled himself back from the deep memories. Crispin kept the corner of his eye on Wynchecombe’s stiff form. They rode knee to knee.

Without looking toward him, the sheriff asked, “Discover the murderer yet?”

He adjusted his seat on the saddle. “For Adam Becton? Not yet. As for Nicholas Walcote, yes. I know who it is.”

“Oh? Who?”

“I believe it is Lionel Walcote. He was here in London at the time.”

“What was his reason?”

“His business was failing and he had no love for his brother. He knew about the secret passage—”

“As did you, I see. A fact you did not share with me.”

Crispin shrugged. “I have been busy.”

“So, he knew of the passage.”

“Yes, he waited therein to surprise his victim. After Lionel stabbed him, he saw it was not his brother.”

“Hence the halfhearted stab to his shoulder.”

Crispin nodded.

“So why Becton?”

“He did not kill Becton. A garrote? That is not common fare for a merchant, even a devious one. A garrote shows planning of another sort.”

“I agree.” The sheriff fell silent and hurried the horse. Crispin jabbed his heels into the side of his own mount to keep pace.

“I shan’t arrest him yet.”

Crispin stared at Wynchecombe. “Why not, Lord Sheriff?”

“Not by your word alone. Especially when you are so dewy-eyed for the woman. His guild would have me